Pharma's untitled adventure
by AliothGrenwahl
Summary: AU where the events after Pharma's fall don't lead him to team up with Tyrest. Instead he finds himself crashlanded on a secluded planet and has to survive in the strange society of Cybertronians there. [Wtf there's no option for Pharma in the characters :(]


**Untitled. Feel free to make suggestions.**

It seemed that all the events in Pharma's life were now bound to be either incredible strikes of luck, or dreadful misfortunes. Mostly a series of unfortunate events leading towards a grim end, but every time he thought everything was going to end as if by a whim of some sadistic dark humoured deity he made it through, for the downward spiral to begin all over again.

He had no reason to expect this would be any different, but still being among actual civilization instead if stationed in a backwater clinic, stranded on some outpost or holed up on a random trade vessel gave him a glimmer of hope. It was certainly better than bleeding to death or melting alive, circuits sizzling slowly, whichever would have happened first. The ship he had been on had crashed on a relatively remote but prosperous planet, with flourishing city states, and apparently they believed in charity. Lucky him.

There had been few survivors from the wreckage of the ship mainly transporting regular passengers and some refugees, all of them in terrible condition, but unexpectedly many of them survived thanks to the quality of medical attention. When had Pharma seen, let alone been in a proper hospital? An actual hospital! Where it wasn't all about mutilated dismembered warriors carted in and out as soon as possible. Violence and chaos.

When he could move about again he'd just been sat there in the hallways silently staring at mechs with sparklings passing by. Disabled passing by. Chronically ill passing by. No screaming mechs with hacked off limbs or gaping holes from blaster shots. No corpses lying around in the hallways because nobody had time to take them down to the morgue - or the morgue just couldn't fit anymore. It just didn't compute.

For a long time he lived in a drug assisted haze, wondering if he was stuck in some sort of limbo, ignoring any attempts of interaction. But as the time went by, he felt his existence becoming more solid as his frame's condition constantly improved and the drugs worked their way out of his system, and finally one day he decided he might as well stop idling and begin a life.

The nurse came in as usual, ready to take readings. Horrifyingly cheerful. What was it with nurses? Had he also been so disgustingly positive once? The bot prattled on about the usual nonsense while fiddling with his equipment, and then went on to musing about his previous patient.

"He was a survivor from the same accident as you. I don't suppose he would be able to ID you for us... probably not. I described you to him but it didn't seem to ring a bell. Not with any of the others either. Shame... you've been here for a long time now, we see you almost every day. We don't even know your name-"

"... Clarion."

The nurse almost dropped his datapad in his surprise. "I... wh... I'm sorry? Did you just-"

"My name. My name is Clarion."

After that... nothing significant happened for a long time. Time went by. His frame grew strong again, got some colour. He became a little famous. They started calling him a miracle at the hospital. The blessed mech who against all odds was making a full recovery after the tragic accident. The injuries alone were extensive, but damage of the spark...

He shed a few tears over his husband when he identified the remains. He'd supposed that would be the appropriate thing to do. His caretakers certainly encouraged him to do so, told him gently there was no need to put on a brave face, none would think any worse of him for grieving after such devastating loss. A soft tone and downward tilted gaze seemed to convince most of the caring nurses that he was not ready to talk about it. Perhaps after the burial ceremony.

He would have to come up with something to say about his dear bonded. Some memories to recall with teary optics and such nonsense. Hardly ideal when the only time you had ever seen the mech was in the morgue with half-burnt half-crushed mangled frame with their internals hanging out. But he had to make do with it. He was going to do this. He was not going to be Pharma so he couldn't have the life of Pharma. And his baby would have to have a father, wouldn't it. Clarion would rise from this mess, and sort things out for himself, and see then what he would make with his new life that had happened upon him. Slowly but surely he prepared to build out his prospects.

Young Pharma had always known that often success depended largely on your contacts. If it hadn't been for his networking he might have never gotten to where he wanted to be, no matter how much skill there had been in his hands. His future as Clarion would be determined by the connections he would make in this... interesting society.

He thought it oddly fascinating. It was as if he was back on the Cybertron of his youth, with no war, without any guilt from the unrest of the lower classes. There were academies, libraries, hospitals. The culture flourished with valued art and artisans. It was everything a mech tired of war could have dreamed of. But there was a dark taint that couldn't be ignored. The fact that regerdless of the advancements and safety of this haven, it was horribly, horribly backwards.

Their society and it's social constructs were utterly archaic. Etiquette and beliefs that had been outdated by the time of his grandparents were somehow alive here. Things their kind had abandoned as parochial long ago. He was particularry displeased with the treatment of light flight frames. Being one himself, it made him reconsider if his initial plan to settle here was a wise choise on his part, but it seemed he was doing well enough. Passing himself off as a widow gave him more independence, so his status was bearable.

Because it had been such a miracle he had survived the crash that had been the talk of the cycle among the people, many people of some importance came to see him, and the other survivors, to view them like some sort of curiosities. But he was a special case, he made sure of it. He made sure to leave an impression on the people, telling them just enough to keep them interested, being careful as not to sound evasive, fuelling the story of the tragedy of the fair 'young' widow. He was fairly successful with many of them. They loved it, and relished in it, as if one of their silly books or plays had come to life. He was very pleased when the hospital's directors took to checking on his progress in person, but he was not quite like the others.

Eolus was old. He distantly reminded him of Ratchet, in the way he was casual, and still commanded recognition, was so savvy and in his element - something Pharma had never understood - but that was where the resemblance ended, which was perhaps merciful, he thought dolefully. The mech had a cunning processor hidden under his gentlemechly front, and Pharma quickly got the feeling that the good of the community was not all it was used for.

The older doctor had regarded him with a new mood in his gaze when he had mentioned he had a past in health care. He could not quite decipher it. The stern mech had looked at him for some moments and then spoke, with an nonchalant tone, but with intensity in his eyes.

"Any good?"

"Pardon, sir?"

The mech raised his chin slighty. "Were you any good?"

"Well, sir, I was a doctor-"

"Of course you were."

"..I'm sorry?"

"Of course you were a doctor. There is no question about it. No ordinary scrub has sensors and wiring like that going to their hands, althought obviously your current replacements leave much to hope for. Which brings us to the question that interests me. Now, you have ambition, I can tell. You had the skills, the parts... why were you here on a backwater transport ship, instead of a private hospital... Others might not bother to question it, you have surely already noticed we do things differently from the modern cybertronian societies here, but as an outsider myself... I can't help but wonder..."

"Well, sir, in case you haven't heard there's a war going on..." he said - not able to help his nature - hoping that would somehow bring conclusion.  
hoping that would somehow bring conclusion.

"And in case you haven't noticed, here we like to pretend that the war doesn't exist." The mech leaned forward. "I don't like bullshit, and I can tell neither do you. A feature present in many successfull doctors I suppose... Well then?"

"...There was an accident." Not exactly a lie. "My hands." he cringed, sincerely, gaze falling to his newest replacements. Adequate, but still not the beautiful instruments that had once been. "It's been a while since I worked in a hospital... it was mainly war injuries and such for a long time. In the end there was no use for someone who couldn't operate. Ahm. We finally decided to seek better prospects elsewhere. I... don't really have any other family left. There's nothing for me to go back to out there." That didn't stop him from looking back.

"Hmmm." the mech nodded, reclining back to his seat. "How very dull." Bringing his servo to his face, one long surgeon's digit tapping the metal of his face. Something Pharma would later learn to know and even miss as a beginning of a scheme

"If you would prefer to occupy yourself with educated company, and some light work, over the charity of feeble minded fools and their idle gossip, perhaps we can work something out. I'm a respected member of this society, I offer you my house and my protection. You are going to need it."

It happened that Pharma did prefer this option over his other ones, and so he was finally truly able to turn a new leaf.


End file.
